


Windows error: Aziraphale.exe has stopped working

by AppleSeeds



Series: Windows [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Author is a serious writer honest, But not today, Flirting, Humor, Least accurate description of window cleaning ever, M/M, Manbun Crowley, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Thirsty Aziraphale (Good Omens), Window cleaner Crowley, this fic is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSeeds/pseuds/AppleSeeds
Summary: At 11:03 every Friday, Aziraphale gets completely distracted from his work by the appearance of a certain insanely attractive and flirtatious window cleaner.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Windows [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2062902
Comments: 49
Kudos: 383
Collections: GO Meet-Cutes, Good Omens Human AUs, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	Windows error: Aziraphale.exe has stopped working

**Author's Note:**

> This week went from bad to worse to even worse to outrageously bad, but writing this has helped keep my spirits up. This one is dedicated to the Pufferfish Yoghurt Starters on Twitter. You can blame them for the bit with the bucket amongst other things. Enjoy! ;-)

Aziraphale had a good life, but he wouldn’t say it had always been filled with the greatest of fortune. Perhaps this was simply because his allocation of luck had all been used up on giving him a desk in this huge, white, gleaming expanse of an office that directly faced the _window_.

Movement in his peripheral vision attracted Aziraphale’s attention, and he glanced down at the clock in the corner of his computer screen. 11:03. Right on time. He looked up, discreetly (or at least, he _hoped_ he was discreet, because he did this _every single Friday_ ) peering over the top of his monitor the same way he always did… to watch the window cleaner.

The man was unbelievable. Seriously, it should be a crime to look that good. For all Aziraphale knew maybe it was, and he had just somehow evaded capture, after all, he certainly had the body for it, even if Aziraphale wasn’t actually entirely sure what he meant by that. In fairness, whenever Aziraphale saw the window cleaner, it wasn’t as if his brain had access to its usual, plentiful, free-flowing blood supply in order to have thoughts that actually made sense.

Regardless, the window cleaner was _ridiculously_ attractive, and even if Aziraphale _hadn’t_ spent what must now have been a cumulative time of at least an hour watching him over the weeks, it would have been difficult not to notice. He had long, flowing, hair (well, that was Aziraphale’s description, but it did almost reach his shoulders) that fell in waves around his face, half pulled up into a bun at the back of his head (and what could be better than that? Maybe a braid? He’d definitely look good with a braid, and maybe tight curls… _ringlets_ even… anyway, moving on…) His hair was flaming, fiery… _scorching_ … well, kind of copper-red, but it was no surprise that those other adjectives sprang to Aziraphale’s mind whenever he took in the man’s overall appearance, with dark glasses that never came off that lent him a certain enigmatic quality (although maybe it was just bright with the reflection of the sun on the gleaming windows, always left sparkling after his attention… Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t mind being left glistening after succumbing to his touch… wait, that’s a little off topic… where were we, oh yes…) and a slender body wrapped up all in black: a T-shirt so tight Aziraphale could make out the bumps of his ribs and his defined, muscular chest, and jeans that for all intents and purposes might as well have been painted on, that would definitely need to be peeeeeeled off, slowly, you know… the way you’d savour your first mouthful of a delicious meal. The _point_ being, the window cleaner was as hot as a pool of boiling sulphur. It was a wonder the water he used to clean the windows didn’t just immediately evaporate as soon as he looked at it. Ohhh, perhaps _that_ was what the dark glasses were for. Clever.

He was elegant and extremely flexible (good to know), always stretching, bending and twisting every which way to ensure not a single millimetre of the window was left untouched. Some of his manoeuvres were so elaborate that they left Aziraphale concerned that the man could _fall_ , which given that Aziraphale worked on the top floor of the building, practically in the _heavens_ (yep), would have been a terrible, terrible thing. There was no real need to worry, however, as not only is this not that kind of story, but the window cleaner was tethered to his platform with a length of red rope that would surely keep him safe were anything to happen. That rope had inspired all sorts of wonderful thoughts in Aziraphale’s mind over the weeks (same), _distracting_ thoughts that _also_ involved the man being _securely tethered_ , only this time to Aziraphale’s bed. But really, Aziraphale was just a good man who was preoccupied with the window cleaner’s safety.

Aziraphale continued peering over the top of his computer screen, eyes trailing down the length of the man’s body, the highlight of every week, a little treat for a Friday morning. Aziraphale kept one brain cell functioning to listen out for his obnoxious boss, Gabriel, but besides that, he let his brain switch off, a well-earned rest after almost a full week hard at work doing the kind of work one does at a desk in a huge, white open-plan top floor office with shiny windows. Brain deactivated, a different part of his body eagerly stepped up to take over temporary leadership responsibilities, acting-up to fill an absence, as it were, but still hopeful of an appropriate raise to go with the position, even if it were only temporary.

The window cleaner stretched, arching his back, and then reached up to the very top of the window, his T-shirt riding up in the process and exposing an expanse of skin just above his waistband, and oh, right, apparently that raise had been approved, how convenient. Aziraphale licked his lips and tugged on his shirt collar, which, along with his trousers, suddenly seemed a little tighter. There was only one explanation, the window cleaner had magical powers, his proximity having a shrinking effect on clothes. It would certainly explain his own attire. Perhaps that’s why he got into window cleaning, he thought the barrier of glass between himself and others would be enough to protect them. Thoughtful, but wrong; it wasn’t working, and by any interpretation, neither was Aziraphale. A blank Word document was displayed on his screen, looking at him indignantly, wondering why it hadn’t yet been transformed into that report that he was supposed to be writing. It would have understood, though, if it had eyes. Clippy the office assistant would have understood if he were still around. Clippy would have asked if Aziraphale needed help, and Aziraphale would have said yes, I need help breathing, is that something you can do little paperclip friend? And Clippy would have said no, but I can help you write a letter.

Aziraphale kept watching as the man tugged his hair free from its tie and ran his hand through it, stretching his arm above his head as he tilted it back and swept his hair back away from his face. It felt like someone had moved some markers during the design of Aziraphale’s circulatory system, because all of his blood was being diverted away from his brain now. His eyes widened and he swallowed hard, clutching the edge of his desk like he was holding on for dear life. Not being able to breathe properly can have that effect on you.

Then the window cleaner locked eyes with him. Aziraphale started, his heart leaping into his throat like it was trying to escape a great beast stirring in his chest, which was ridiculous, there was clearly _something_ stirring in his body but it was a good deal further south than his _chest_ (although it may or may not have indeed involved a great beast). Aziraphale immediately flicked his eyes back to his computer screen, frantically typing a nonsensical string of letters on his keyboard with trembling fingers. He then stared at the screen, the cursor blinking at the end of his masterpiece:

**dsagdfagfaghsfdsddgafghsfgasgfgasdgfasdgasgd**

It was a surprisingly apt characterisation of how Aziraphale was feeling, his heart still trying to pound its way free from his chest, his lungs feeling like someone was stepping on him.

_I’d let **him** step on me. Oh, good Lord._

Aziraphale started typing actual words. They were meaningless words with no relevance to the work he was supposed to be doing, but at least they were _words_.

**Sheep biscuit asterisk avocado words typing words actual words not looking safe to look maybe don’t know typing words working hard**

Aziraphale took a deep breath and steeled himself. It had to be safe to look _now_ , right? Surely the man was just getting on with his job, which is exactly what Aziraphale should have been doing. Despite that, he tore his attention away from his very insightful report, and glanced up once again towards the window.

Aziraphale’s stomach did somersaults when he saw that the window cleaner was still watching him, with a smirk plastered on his face. He raised his hand and quirked his finger towards himself, beckoning Aziraphale to come to the window.

_Oh. Oh dear._

Aziraphale looked back at him, and the window cleaner just tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, never taking his eyes off Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallowed hard and brushed his palms down the front of his shirt, his eyes darting discreetly (possibly? Maybe discreet wasn’t something he was capable of after all) to either side to see if any of his colleagues were watching. They weren’t. They truly were just getting on with their jobs, oblivious to the fact that their poor colleague was sweating so much he might pass out from dehydration. Yes, he was _thirsty_ , and, as Aziraphale’s terrible fortune would have it, the water cooler was right next to the God-forsaken _window_.

Aziraphale rose from his desk chair on shaky legs and stepped over to the window, bracing himself on the photocopier next to it. There was very little chance he would be able to stay standing otherwise. Up close, he could see how outrageously, devilishly handsome the window cleaner was, and to make matters worse, he pushed his sunglasses up and rested them on top of his head, giving Aziraphale his first glimpse of stunning, deep brown eyes that seemed to swirl like molten chocolate, the kind you would drizzle over your body and let a stunningly attractive window cleaner lick off you. Aziraphale stared into those eyes, feeling hypnotised, and wondered whether _that_ was why the window cleaner always had to wear his sunglasses, a precaution to prevent everyone from falling under his spell and losing the ability to think, which was exactly what was happening to Aziraphale right now. No thoughts. Just… well, his report said it pretty well: dsagdfagfaghsfdsddgafghsfgasgfgasdgfasdgasgd.

The man had pulled his phone out of his pocket and was typing on it, and then turned the screen towards Aziraphale, pressing it up against the window. Aziraphale’s breath caught as he leaned in closer to read the message.

**you need to water your plant**

Aziraphale furrowed his brow and the man pointed to the pot plant next to the photocopier, which had, in fairness, seen better days. It had been Aziraphale’s suggestion that the office, although nice, could do with some houseplants, and he did try to look after them, _and_ , in fairness, all of the others seemed to be doing quite well. This one must have just been scorched by its close proximity to the window (cleaner).

Aziraphale attempted a polite smile (although you can be assured that whatever the hell the expression he actually formed was, it wasn’t that) and nodded, raising his palm up in a shaky gesture of thanks, and hurriedly retreated to the safety of his desk. When Aziraphale looked back up, the window cleaner was laughing, and although Aziraphale could feel his cheeks burning and embarrassment gnawing away at his gut, his whole body tingled to see a smile on the man’s face.

Aziraphale might have been a bit of a masochist (not like that… well, maybe _sometimes_ like that, but I digress), and apparently wanted to torture himself, because he decided that 11:02 the following Friday would be a good time to do a big batch of photocopying. He’d watered the plant diligently all week, and it was starting to look much healthier. He was hoping the window cleaner would be pleased with him, maybe even tell him he’d done a good job. Aziraphale thought he would quite enjoy being on the receiving end of the window cleaner’s praise. 

At 11:03, Aziraphale glanced up from the photocopier, clutching onto the feed-in tray when he beheld the sight of the window cleaner, wearing a tight black vest today that showed off his shoulders (which Aziraphale, for some reason, wanted to bite… is that normal? Well, too late for any deliberation on that because it was already happening in Aziraphale’s mind), looking right at him with a grin on his face. He waved, and Aziraphale forgot what social convention dictated was the proper response to such a gesture, so he winced and said, “I’m photocopying.” Thankfully, it would have been inaudible through the soundproof windows, and he didn’t turn around to see if any of his colleagues had looked up at him, his words breaking through the background noise of the whirring photocopier and purposeful typing on dozens of keyboards. Aziraphale then pointed at the photocopier, for reasons unknown even to himself, although perhaps he was just trying to excuse his presence by the window: _I’m not here to ogle you up close, honestly, aside from the fact that I am_.

Aziraphale was really starting to miss having a functioning brain. It’s hard to tell right now, but Aziraphale was, ordinarily, rather intellectual. The window cleaner raised his eyebrows and nodded, a slight smirk on his face, before he once again lifted his sunglasses onto the top of his head and pointed at the plant, giving Aziraphale a look that conveyed his approval. Aziraphale melted into a puddle of goo. He picked up his stack of photocopying, the paper fluttering in the grasp of his trembling hands, and hid behind his computer screen, not daring to look back up at the window (place your bets on how long that will last).

_Wave back! That’s what you do when someone waves at you!_

He looked up then (who had 0.4 seconds?), like the foolish idiot that he was, and even raised his hand in a sort of half-hearted, confused, and, more to the point, _confusing_ , wave. Would it be less mortifying to at least commit to it and wave properly? Aziraphale smiled widely and waved enthusiastically. Nope, that was worse. Definitely worse. The window cleaner nibbled on his bottom lip, locked eyes with Aziraphale and _winked_.

Well, at least Aziraphale’s sister, his listed next-of-kin, could expect a nice healthy pay-out from the company as a result of her brother dying on the job.

_Hhnnnnnnnnnnnngggggghhhhh._

At 11:03 the following Friday, Aziraphale was facing the disturbing reality that after seeing the window cleaner up close on two occasions now (which had included being able to see his captivating eyes, _and_ being subjected to an actual _wink_ ), his physiological state as a result of his presence was even harder to cope with. His lungs felt like they were rattling with every single one of his short, sharp breaths (that couldn’t be good, right?), the time between each heart beat was so miniscule as to be imperceptible, giving the impression that his heart had just seized up completely, his stomach felt like a helicopter was trying to take off in it and his hands were so sweaty that he kept losing his grip on the mouse. At least he’d remembered to obtain a considerable supply of water from the water cooler about fifteen minutes ago, when it had actually been safe to do so.

Perhaps today he just wouldn’t look. He was hardly a young man anymore; all this punishment couldn’t be good for his heart. Aziraphale kept his gaze trained on the screen, but he could see the window cleaner moving out of the corner of his eye, which was sufficient to set his pulse racing. His brain filled in the gaps that his eyes refused to provide, manifesting a detailed image of the perfect present wrapped all in black, tied with a red rope, just waiting to be undone.

Aziraphale’s phone rang. This was bad timing. How was he supposed to be coherent right now? At least he hadn’t looked. That would have made it even worse. He picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear, fiddling with the cord with his other hand.

“Hello,” he tried politely, his voice a little croaky. “Aziraphale Fell speaking.”

“Hey… look out the window.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow and instinctively looked up in response to the instruction, and there was the window cleaner, hip cocked, phone pressed to his ear, waving at Aziraphale.

_Oh good heavens no…_

Aziraphale gaped like a fish and slid down in his chair, concealing himself behind his computer screen.

“Aww, please don’t hide from me.”

Aziraphale just about had the wherewithal to turn the mouthpiece of the phone away from his face to avoid subjecting the window cleaner to the sound of his heavy breathing. Besides that small motion he had frozen completely, as though time had been temporarily halted and he was suspended on another plane of existence where all that existed was the sound of his ridiculously rapid breaths and his heart pounding in his ears, and the repeating thought of _what in the name of everything holy do I do now?_ , adrenaline pouring into his blood and activating his fight-or-flight (or freeze, he seemed to be going for _freeze_ right now) response, desperately trying to figure out an escape. He was tempted to crawl under his desk and hide.

“Please don’t hang up on me.”

“I wouldn’t. That would be rude,” Aziraphale choked out. “How did you get my number?”

“I took a photo of you and showed it to the guys on reception and asked who you were. I said I wanted to talk to you, so they gave me your number.”

“I see. That’s not really proper procedure.”

In Aziraphale’s panicked attempts to come up with a way to deal with this unthinkable situation, he had slipped into ‘dealing with an awkward colleague’ mode, and now he just sounded like a snarky bastard, which wasn’t what he _wanted_ to sound like, not when the window cleaner’s voice in his ear was like liquid gold cascading over a meadow of wildflowers or something.

The window cleaner said something that sounded like an array of consonants strung together (ah, so apparently the kind of words such as that which Aziraphale had frantically typed on his keyboard a fortnight ago _were_ pronounceable out loud), followed by, “I know, sorry. I can hang up if you want.”

Aziraphale’s throat was threatening to close up, which would, at least, prevent his heart from escaping that way, which was evidently what it was trying to do. He again held the phone away from him and took a deep breath before responding.

“Regarding what matter were you wishing to speak to me?”

Right, well… ok, apparently the next plan to deal with the situation was to try being outrageously formal. You’d be forgiven for thinking Aziraphale _hadn’t_ been obsessing about this man for months on end. I mean, he should _want_ to talk to him, right? Well, yes, in theory… but his capacity for normal speech had been shut down due to limited resources (blood supply), you see.

“Wow… ok. Erm… how’s the plant?”

“It appears to be in good health, would you not agree?”

_Oh, good Lord._

“Yeah, it’s definitely doing better. Looks like it could use some fertiliser though. Sorry, houseplants are a hobby of mine.”

“Oh, how delightful.” (Seriously) “Well, thank you very much for sharing your expertise; I shall endeavour to acquire the appropriate fertiliser in due course.”

So now Aziraphale just sounded like a formal _email_. He would most certainly have to restrain himself from saying ‘kind regards’ when hanging up, because that would be inexcusable.

“Well… I could leave some for you at reception.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale willed his brain into action, and it _attempted_ to stutter to life, but then he made the foolish mistake of looking up again at the window. The window cleaner had once again taken off his sunglasses, and was still looking right at Aziraphale, smiling. He really did seem like a very nice man, Aziraphale should at least _try_ to be polite. “That would be very kind of you, thank you,” Aziraphale smiled in return before losing his nerve and ducking back under his screen.

“My pleasure. I’m sorry I interrupted your work.”

Ha. He had _no idea_ how much work he had actually distracted Aziraphale from over these past few months.

“Oh no, that’s quite all right. I appreciate your advice.”

“Right, well then…”

Somewhere amongst the conflagration that was Aziraphale’s physiological state right now, he became aware that his pounding heart now seemed to be sinking deeper into his chest. For someone who had spent every second since he’d answered the call trying to work out how to get off the phone, Aziraphale didn’t want it to end.

_There’s a way to avoid that, you know. You say words and then the other person says words, it’s called a **conversation** , perhaps you’ve heard of it? It’s what normal people do._

“Well, it’s been lovely to actually speak to you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Kinda felt like you wanted to get me off the phone.”

“Oh, I do apologise. I’m just a little stressed; you know how it is.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t possibly have _any_ idea what it was like. Although he did, presumably, own a mirror, so he had to have some awareness of the potential effect he might have on people.

“Yeah, is that pretentious-looking arsehole in the corner office your boss?”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

“Well, looks like he’s about to sneak up on you.”

“Oh. Right. Thank you.” Gabriel had a habit of doing that. He stalked around the office quietly and seemed to take particular pleasure in creeping up behind Aziraphale, spying over his shoulder for a while and then commenting, usually rather rudely, on his work.

“No problem. I’d best let you get on. Don’t forget to pick up the plant food from reception.”

“I shall write it down now to remind myself.” _Be brave, Aziraphale, come on._ “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your name?”

“Crowley. Talk again sometime?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Goodbye, Crowley.”

Well, that didn’t go so badly, in the end. Aziraphale replaced the handset of his phone and swivelled around in his chair before Gabriel had chance to make his presence known, giving him a friendly smile.

“Ah, Gabriel. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gabriel was clearly taken aback by Aziraphale’s demeanour and the fact he had caught him before he had a chance to sneak up on him. His usual smugness seemed to be losing integrity and disintegrating rapidly, which gave Aziraphale immense pleasure, as he stumbled over his words for a second.

“Just checking in. How’s everything going?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good, good. Carry on.”

Gabriel walked away without offering any _constructive criticism_ of Aziraphale’s work, without drawing him into a debate about ‘the right way of doing things’, and, miraculously, without even calling him _sunshine_. Aziraphale peered over the top of his monitor and saw Crowley raise his eyebrows and smile. Crowley then started actually _cleaning_ the window, and Aziraphale suspected it was his imagination, but when Crowley wiped the soap from the window with the blade, he momentarily created a shape that resembled a heart.

The following Friday, Aziraphale made a special effort when he got ready for work in the morning, putting on his favourite waistcoat and bowtie, and making his hair look extra floofy. Crowley’s phone number had been logged in his work phone, and Aziraphale had written it on a post-it, just in case he ever needed it (for a window cleaning emergency, perhaps), although he doubted he would ever actually have the courage to use it. He wondered whether Crowley would call _him_ again today, and he would like to think that his heart fluttered with anticipation at the prospect, however, his heart was actually just pounding against his sternum screaming ‘let me out’, while his stomach was being rather garrulous about expressing its reluctance to hold onto his breakfast.

At 11:03, Aziraphale held onto the side of his desk chair for support and peeked his head above his monitor. Crowley smiled and blew him a kiss, colouring Aziraphale’s cheeks red and his knuckles white as he gripped harder onto his chair. Was he trying to make Aziraphale spontaneously combust? Still, that meant he must _like_ him, right?

Crowley did an elaborate sideways leaning manoeuvre that looked more like a yoga posture than an efficient way to accomplish the task at hand, his T-shirt riding up his side and exposing that delectable expanse of skin that never ceased to make Aziraphale lick his lips. Crowley picked up his red bucket full of water and tried to balance it on his hip, the water splashing out and soaking one side of Crowley’s T-shirt, making it cling to him even more tightly. What was the man thinking doing something like that? (He couldn’t _possibly_ have done on purpose, of course.)

Crowley set down the bucket with an exaggerated pout, and then… _oh goodness gracious heavens above no_ … he tucked his fingertips beneath the hem of his T-shirt and started lifting... and Aziraphale’s brain suffered a fatal error, 404 page not found, Aziraphale.exe has stopped working, something went wrong, runtime error… to be expected, after all, shutting off the blood supply to the brain will have much the same effect as shutting off the power supply to a computer. Aziraphale’s nails made a scraping noise where they dug into the armrests of his chair.

Crowley tugged his T-shirt over his head, wringing it out over the bucket, shooting Aziraphale a wink and then biting down on his bottom lip. That image… that _body_ … was permanently burned onto Aziraphale’s retinas, and he really wouldn’t have had it any other way. One of his hands relinquished its grip on the chair, reaching out pathetically in front of him and stroking the air.

_Want to touch…_

Crowley smirked and shook out his T-shirt, pulling it back over his head. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he instinctively moved his hand closer to the phone on his desk, noticing that he was actually trembling. Even though he had been expecting it, when the phone rang, Aziraphale jumped in his seat. He rushed to grab the handset, his agitated state conferring on him a desperate need to silence the intrusive ringing.

“Hello, Aziraphale Fell speaking.”

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Crowley drawled. That was the first time Crowley had said his name, and Aziraphale shivered. Telephone conversations didn’t _normally_ feel like someone was literally whispering in his ear, but Aziraphale got the feeling that this one might, and his blood continued to pool in his abdomen. “You look very nice today.”

“Thank you. You look… wet.”

“Yes I am... Good thing it’s really hot today.” Crowley was right, it was _very_ hot today. It had also got about fifty degrees hotter in the last two minutes, and Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and tugged at his bowtie. “Or maybe that’s just me enjoying the view.”

“I can imagine you get a very good view of the city from out there.”

“You _know_ that’s not what I mean.” Crowley’s voice had dropped by nearly a full octave, low and rumbling in Aziraphale’s ear. “Why are you dressed like that? Big presentation?”

“Oh… no. I just…”

“ _Please_ tell me you dressed like that for me.”

“Oh… I…”

“Do you have any photocopying you need to do?”

“I… erm… no… I don’t think…”

“Surely there must be something? Oh, and I think the bottom paper tray might need filling up,” Crowley teased.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale hissed into the phone, eyes darting to either side, but it seemed his colleagues were still completely oblivious to the interaction taking place, and how close Aziraphale was to exploding into flames.

“Do you want me to stop?” Crowley asked softly.

“No,” Aziraphale confessed, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Good. Please come over to the window. You should at least get a drink of water, don’t want you getting dehydrated in this heat.”

Crowley lowered his head and peered at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses, beckoning him towards him with both hands.

“All right.”

“Perfect. Will you do something for me?”

“What?”

“When you come to the window, roll your sleeves up for me?”

“Why?”

“It’s hot.” The double meaning wasn’t lost on Aziraphale, even with the limited blood supply to his brain, and he drew in a shuddering breath, forgetting to move the mouthpiece of the phone away before doing so. “Mmm… do you like me saying things like that?”

“Crowley, I’m at _work_. At least take me to dinner first,” Aziraphale grumbled.

“I’d love to. You free tonight?”

“I didn’t mean…” Aziraphale began, and Crowley tilted his head and pouted, looking at him with wide eyes. “Yes, all right.”

“Well, I assume my number’s come up on the display, so why don’t you call me later when you’re _not_ at work?”

“I will.”

“Excellent. Now are you going to come and see me? Please?” Crowley smiled sweetly, and Aziraphale took another deep breath, this time turning his head away from the phone. He looked up at Crowley and nodded, and Crowley’s face broke out into a wide grin. “Thank you, Aziraphale. Don’t hang up, just put the phone on your desk. Want to talk to you after.”

Aziraphale carefully laid the phone down on his desk and rose from his chair, straightening his waistcoat and then stepping over to the window, standing in front of Crowley and watching with total amazement, his stomach doing somersaults, as Crowley pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and let his eyes sweep appreciatively up and down Aziraphale’s body before fixing him with a heated stare. Aziraphale’s legs threatened to buckle beneath him, and his heart, lungs and stomach all seemed to have been thrown into the same mixing bowl that was being stirred like anything, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact with Crowley as he, with shaky fingers, undid the buttons at his wrists and slowly rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

Crowley’s lips parted, and Aziraphale could see the way his shoulders visibly rose and fell with each breath as his eyes trailed over Aziraphale’s exposed forearms. Aziraphale squirmed uncomfortably (his discomfort only a result of the _location_ this interaction was taking place in, his body responding in a manner that wasn’t at all appropriate for the workplace) and moved towards the water cooler. His whole body trembling as he did so, Aziraphale turned his back to the window and bent over a little more than necessary to extract a paper cup from the stack, pressing down on the plastic tap to fill it with water. When he turned back to the window, Crowley’s teeth were clenched and the look he was giving Aziraphale was… _scorching_ , leaving him feeling like someone was giving him a massage with a blowtorch.

Not breaking eye contact, Crowley pointed at Aziraphale’s desk, and Aziraphale swallowed thickly before retreating, hurriedly picking up the phone.

“Wow… you look _amazing_. You are _incredibly_ distracting, do you know that?”

“That’s kind of you to say, but you’re hardly one to talk.”

Crowley laughed. “You find me distracting?”

“Extraordinarily so.”

“Well, I apologise for keeping you from your work,” he laughed. “I should probably be getting on too. I’ve heard people say they set their clocks by me. You’ll call me about dinner later though, right?”

“Of course I will.”

“Great. It’s so nice to be able to talk to you. Seeing you is always the highlight of my week.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together and he shook his head. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s _absolutely_ true, but talking to you, actually hearing your voice… that’s something else. You have a really sexy voice.”

“Well now, that’s _definitely_ not true.”

“I’m already thinking of things I can do later to prove to you that I mean it,” Crowley drawled, sending another shiver right down Aziraphale’s spine. “Take care, Aziraphale. Have a good day.”

“Thank you, you too. Oh, Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

"You’re the highlight of my week too.”

**Author's Note:**

> So... yeah, that was a thing. Something appealing about flirting through a window right now!! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! <3
> 
> Thanks to Oniria_Creation there is already a follow-up planned that involves Aziraphale washing the Bentley while Crowley is sat in it. Don't know when that will happen but watch this space. ;-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Windows error: Aziraphale.exe has stopped working](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28479672) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)




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